


Horses + Crowley Go Ngk

by charlottemadison, Waywarder



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 5+1 Things, Aziraphale and Crowley Through The Ages (Good Omens), Aziraphale is a Disney princess, Crowley is a Mess (Good Omens), Crowley is bad at horses, Eden Crawly is so soft, F/F, Fitzrowling is our new disposable villain name for reasons, Horse Racing, Horses, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Ineffable Idiots (Good Omens), Ineffable Wives | Female Aziraphale/Female Crowley (Good Omens), Jousting, M/M, Pining, Regency, Scene: Garden of Eden (Good Omens), Snake Crowley (Good Omens), Wessex - Freeform, appearances by femme Crowley and femme Aziraphale, so much pining
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-30
Updated: 2020-12-04
Packaged: 2021-03-07 20:48:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,947
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26723911
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/charlottemadison/pseuds/charlottemadison, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Waywarder/pseuds/Waywarder
Summary: Aziraphale is a horse whisperer. Crowley is a horse disaster. At least they have each other.(Well, they don't "have" each other, precisely, What are you suggesting, sir?)Five times Crowley upsets horses, and one time he upsets Aziraphale.+++After an appropriate time at his post, Aziraphale wandered into the Garden again. Surely this was part of his purpose. It hadn’t been explicitly said, but Aziraphale felt in his heart he was supposed to be fraternising with all of creation. How else was he to serve them? He smiled as he heard the snorting and stomping of one of those elegant hooved creatures. Perhaps there was another ride in his future.He was only half a footstep into the clearing when he saw them.A demon.They were obviously closer to the hooved animal than she liked. She reared back angrily, but the demon stood their ground, arm outstretched, a bit of fruit in their hand.“Just take the stupid bloody thing,” hissed the demon. She calmed a bit and stepped forward, nudging at the offered fruit. Aziraphale watched the demon’s golden eyes grow wide in…no, it couldn’t be wonder, could it? What did demons care about the cautious affection of animals?
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 89
Kudos: 208
Collections: GO-Events POV Pairs Works





	1. Chapter 1

Nobody had prepared Crawly for the noise. 

Everything, everywhere, made noise. Crawly spun till he was dizzy chasing the source of each sound. Cawing, trilling, growling, singing, buzzing, snapping and screeching -- the thousands of brand new insects and animals had _so_ much to say. Even in the quietest hour, just after dark, the water, the trees, the ice at the north end of the Garden and the shifting sand in the south -- they all spoke in voices of their own.

It was overwhelming. The demon Crawly watched and listened for hours upon hours, awestruck, as the evidence of Her imagination flapped and bounced and trundled and splashed by him. When the brilliant new creatures without names said _hooo_ or _quork_ or _phhhhthbh_ or _ennnh_ or _fffsssshhht_ or _ngk_ , he would always say it back, just to see how each one felt. Just to be part of the cacophony.

Heaven had been so orderly and quiet. The ethereal halls rang with celestial harmonies, except for the odd intervals of perfect, meditative silence. Working in the vast darkness of space had been silent as well, though Crawly remembered loving the burning sensation and the vivid visual spark of awakening stars.

Hell had its soundscape, too, After. But that was as boring as it was repetitive. Heat and pain and loneliness only generated so many noises.

Crawly's characteristic hiss sounded much like the steam and shifting pressure below ground. He knew he was bound to that place. But after a single trip to the Garden, he was determined to spend as little of his existence in Hell as he could get away with. Maybe he could tell them it was all a lot of rot up here. Nothing worthwhile -- nothing fun -- _far_ too much divine inspiration and intelligent design running amok. No place any self-respecting demon would want to spend time.

He was supposed to tell lies now anyway, wasn't he? Wasn't that how this Fall thing worked?

In the meantime, he lost himself in astonishment, lounging for hours on sun-warmed rocks, sometimes in his winged aspect, sometimes as the creature he had become when he Changed. He glimpsed a few animals that looked like him, sounded like him, in all different sizes and colors. He did not know what to call them yet. He wasn’t sure what to call himself yet. Besides _demon._ That bit he was pretty clear on. 

He knew the humans were supposed to show up eventually and name everything, but nobody had ever mentioned who would name _him._ Duke Hastur called him Crawly, which seemed like a sick joke, since his new shape didn’t even have legs to crawl with. It wasn’t like crawling was all that bad -- there were plenty of shiny little crawly things here -- it just wasn’t what Crawly actually _did._ Of course it was also possible Hastur was a bit dense and unimaginative. 

Crawly was glad he was the only representative of Hell above ground. He liked being up here where everything was brand new. 

Well, nearly everything.

The angels were the only familiar sight in the Garden.

Three of them stood constant guard atop the mighty Wall, and a fourth -- well, that angel visited their post on the Wall, but seemed to prefer the temperate zones of the Garden. They wandered the fields and beaches and sat under a certain apple tree more than they kept watch.

Crawly had mixed feelings about this.

On the one hand, he had a sneaking suspicion he was supposed to dislike angels now, as a sort of professional obligation. Opposing teams and whatnot.

On the other hand, Hell hadn't said anything specific to that end. Crawly’s orders had been vaguely issued in an apathetic tone by superiors who couldn’t be bothered. He hadn't been explicitly told _not_ to “make some trouble” by chatting up an angel. It could be very interesting trouble, and frankly Crawly was more motivated by what was interesting than by what was trouble.

Then again, the angels would doubtless end his short demonic tenure on earth -- maybe even his tenure, period -- if _they_ had orders to do so. And knowing the Heavenly Host, their orders were probably clear and specific, delivered by deeply invested commanding officers. The Wall guards were in possession of flaming weapons that looked very sharp, and those probably weren’t just for show.

Although -- and this was key -- angel number four, the Appreciative Angel, as Crawly was starting to think of them, did not seem particularly focused on following orders.

So they had that in common.

Crawly decided his best move was to gather more information. He undertook close surveillance of the Appreciative Angel, at least when he could manage it sneakily in his animal form. He was careful to hide when he wanted wings and hands and feet and all.

Though they never spoke, Crawly grew irrationally fond of the Wall-duty-dodging angel. They said the most _ridiculous_ words in their daft little singsong voice, for one thing, talking almost nonstop to Creation at large. They also liked to eat, and they sampled a great many of the plants that they saw the animals eating. Whenever Crawly watched the angel rapturously enjoying, say, a particular berry, he'd come back later to sample it for himself. He learned that the angel had excellent taste. Crawly nearly made his corporation ill on the juicy purple spheres that grew in clusters, he liked them so much. The angel seemed to have a weakness for tree fruit, especially the lumpy-shaped tawny red and green-golden ones with the soft white flesh, the ones that dripped juice down their rosy chin. Crawly could’ve watched them eat those all day.

Most of all, though, he learned that the angel shared his enthusiasm for all the marvelous new creatures. The other three angels were right ridiculous wankers for taking no interest in the Garden, Crawly thought. If they happened to be following orders and the Appreciative Angel was disobedient, well, all the more evidence that Crawly had made the right choice -- or, well, at least been swept up with the right bunch -- or was it the wrong bunch? -- in the Fall. 

Anyway, disobedience looked good from here. _Here_ being coiled high in the branches of a Stoneheart Greensmash Fruit tree, keeping watch as the angel cooed at a number of small flying Featheries that alighted on their knees and arms and even in their silver-gold cloudfluff hair.

That was the thing; the Appreciative Angel seemed to charm every living being. Crawly never got too close to the animals, but they positively swarmed the angel. From the little armored Scuttles to the fast-flapping Zooms to the giant sharp-horned Grazers, they all circled the angel hoping to be caressed and talked to and admired. The Appreciative Angel had praise and pets for each one, even the slimy, ugly ones Crawly had already seen in Hell. It made the creatures so happy to be touched.

And so one day when the angel was actually minding their place on the Wall, Crawly reached out a hand to see if he could do the same. He started with one of his own kind, an elegant jewel-green lady draped over a branch. She let him touch her, coolly, indifferently. He loved the yielding, pebbled sensation of her scales, and wondered whether his own would feel the same under fingertips.

Elated, he searched out another animal. The first he found was a fuzzy fast tree-jumping Chittery. It wanted _nothing_ to do with him, and it told him so at length. “Fine! Fine. Be that way,” Crawly grumbled. He tried to chitter back at it, but that just made the little thing more indignant, and it vanished into the canopy.

Results with the other animals were mixed.

The Scales and Slimies didn't seem to mind him, at least not the larger ones. The Swimmers were mostly too hard to catch, but the ones he brushed with a fingertip were slippery. Some of the larger furry chaps didn't react much to him at all, and they tolerated petting -- but they seemed like the sorts that wouldn't react to anything, and he ultimately found their apathy unflattering.

Apart from these exceptions, creatures mostly ran from him, scattering before his feet or shooting into the air when he got too close. It was deeply frustrating.

But far worse were the animals that ran _towards_ him instead of away.

Some of the larger hairy hot-blooded Hornies and the giant river Chomps and the Tallfeathers -- and, inexplicably, a skinny little angry Tunnel-Fur no higher than his knee, with its tail all fluffed up -- would charge wild-eyed at Crawly, snorting and champing as though he were something to eat or step on. The sleek striped and spotted Clawsies, the softest creatures in the garden, loved to purr and cuddle with the angel, but they clearly wanted to murder Crawly. And they were _fast._

After allowing a single experimental bite on an outstretched arm, he decided to grant these animals the space they were not-so-politely requesting. Thereafter he high-tailed it when a beast reacted this way, sometimes even taking flight or tunneling into the dirt to get out of reach in time.

Crawly knew he was no longer an angel, but really, this degree of rejection felt unnecessarily cruel. The soft little Floofs and colorful Flutters looked _so_ appealing to touch, but they kept well out of his reach. He sighed as he watched them hopping and flitting about their business in the forest.

At least the plants didn't seem to mind him.

“It's not fair,” he told a verdant, lacy Groundfurl as he stroked its fronds. “They go right up to the angel. Sit on their feet. Curl up in their lap. I got into this for asking questions; I never asked to scare off soft things.”

The Groundfurl did not answer, but Crawly projected sympathy onto it anyway, since nobody was around to stop him, and then thanked it for understanding. The dappled sun and shade in the forest grove felt nice, and the smallest flitting Featheries were whistling overhead -- Crawly whistled back at them for a while, to amuse himself, and then coiled up in his limbless form to take a nap with his new frondy friend.

The vibrations in the ground awoke him as much as the noise. Something heavy-hoofed was on its way, many somethings, and that could mean trouble.

Crawly peered warily through the foliage as he shrank down to a subtler size. Sure enough, the Appreciative Angel was approaching with a procession of majestic creatures, only --

Only something was different this time, something was _wrong --_

The angel was too tall, and their bare feet dangled above the ground; they moved strangely through the air, gliding like a Swimmer, only their wings were at rest --

Crawly darted up into a tree to catch a better glimpse from a low branch. He could hardly believe his lidless eyes. The angel was _sitting astride_ one of the beasts. It was carrying them on its _back._

What newfangled locomotive arrangement was this?

The beast in question was a strong, stout, furry little hooved lady; she had a long face on an arched neck that was crested with coarse hair. Her sweeping tail was always in motion, flicking the Buzzbites away. Crawly had seen many of these beautiful creatures, in a wide variety of colors and sizes -- and while he knew they weren't for him to name, for now he thought of them as the Snorts. They made excellent noises, and they were a delight to watch as they bucked and played and ran across the plains.

They also hated Crawly.

He'd made several attempts to approach them, in both of his forms, because they looked so spirited and smart. But the Snorts universally saw Crawly as a threat; the skittish ones ran, and the bold ones tried to crush him under their hooves. Even the adorable little fat ones, like the speckled grey lady carrying the angel, might lash out if he got too close.

_How was the angel doing that?_

Crawly racked his brain, trying to remember if he'd seen anything like it before. The long-tailed Tree-Boings sometimes rode one another's backs, and little Swimmers sometimes hitched a ride on big Swimmers, but this seemed different somehow. Crawly got as close as he dared and followed the strange parade by winding from branch to branch through the trees above.

The angel was talking to the animals, as they often did; there were six Snorts in their retinue, and they rode the smallest. The strong, stocky one by their elbow was patched all over with gold and cream. The stylish one sported a mohawk and dazzling black and white stripes along his neck, with a coppery patch all across his back and flanks. The long-limbed elegant female was black as night with a star between her eyes. The anxious boy’s coat matched the color of Crawly's auburn hair, except where he was marked bright white around the edges, as if his feet and face had been dipped in snow. The largest Snort towered over the angel but carried her heavy head low, shaking the forest floor as she walked on massive hooves flocked in shaggy hair. She issued a deep wonderful _ffthbthbthbfphth_ from her snout that ruffled the angel's feathers and made them laugh out loud.

Crawly instinctively tried to snort back, but that only resulted in a silent flick of his tongue. _Blep._

The little procession paused in a clearing as some brightly-colored Featheries swirled in a flashing flock around the angel, squawking and bothering the Snorts, making a game of avoiding their swishing tails. Three of them landed on the angel’s arm to be stroked and kissed. 

A pang of jealousy twisted inside of Crawly's elongated gut. He wasn't sure whether he wanted to be the angel, beloved by all the creatures, or to be one of the creatures the angel loved, but either way he ached to be invited into the affectionate romp below.

When the Featheries suddenly decided to be elsewhere, taking off all at once as if they shared one mind, the angel couldn’t hold back a reflexive twitch of their own sweeping white wings. 

This spooked the anxious red Snort, and he jumped, skin shivering, and trotted away across the clearing. “Oh, I'm so sorry, my dear, do come back!” called the angel. They leaned forward, kicked a leg over their mount's round little rump, and dropped gracefully to the ground.

The red creature whickered at them nervously and clopped in a little circle, unsure whether it wanted to stay or go. The angel held out an open hand and stepped very slowly toward him, crooning in a low voice.

“You're quite safe, my darling. I didn't mean to frighten you. We can be friends, can't we? Surely we can. Here, I have a treat for you, see if you like this...” The angel produced one of their favorite tree fruits from some corner of their robe and cradled it in their outstretched palm.

Crawly held his breath.

The Snort bobbed his head several times and sidestepped one way, then another, apparently torn. But it did not back away from the angel's slow advance.

“You're doing so well. Aren't you? Yes, you are, you're very brave, my dear.” The angel stopped at last, an arm's length away. They took a large bite of the soft fruit, leaving a white patch on its freckled golden surface, and then offered up the rest. Crawly could smell its pungent sweetness with his forked tongue.

The creature's nostrils flared, his tail swished as he considered. After a few huffing breaths, he gave in to temptation, lunging forward with a snort to eat the fruit of the Garden.

“Ohhh, thasss _brilliant!”_ Crawly whispered to himself, before remembering that he ought to shut the Heaven up.

As soon as the animal accepted the gift, all the tension left his body. The angel reached carefully up to stroke his neck, ruffle his hair, scratch behind his ears. When he finished eating they petted his nose. The Snort butted the angel's chest fondly with his head, perhaps searching for more food, perhaps just reveling in the attention.

“You're such a beauty!” the angel praised the creature. “Would you allow me, perhaps? Just like your friend there? I know it's unorthodox, but I can't help feeling that we're a natural fit, your kind and ours. She made you for a special purpose, didn't She? Shall we see how we get on?”

In answer, the Snort pressed his head into the angel's shoulder and closed his eyes contentedly.

As the angel ran their hands over the animal's flanks, whispering loving encouragement, Crawly gripped his tree branch tight and flexed his body excitedly. So _this_ was how the ingenious angel did it! It was a marvel to watch. Inspiring. Inspired. Hell wouldn't be interested, probably, but Hell could go to...well. That.

With one foot up on an arched root and a hand in the Snort's flowing crest, the angel laid their body carefully across his broad back. He didn't seem to mind at all. Slowly, carefully, the angel shifted their balance until they could ease one leg over those mighty hindquarters and shift their full weight onto him. Never did they stop petting and soothing the animal.

“Easy, darling...there we go...oh, that's jolly good, such a well-mannered gentleman you are. What a fine fellow. Just breathe, yes...marvelous! Oh! Simply stupendous, my beauty. There we are. We've done it. _Such_ a good boy.”

Crawly rubbed his own head along his tree branch, itching to know what it felt like. To be the angel, to be under the angel's soothing hand -- to be touched at all.

Together, moving like a single noble being, the angel and the proud creature trotted back to the attentive crowd of animals. Sitting higher now, the angel could fondle and scratch all the other Snorts, along with two antlered Leaps and a big brown Growl that had joined to witness the occasion.

“Thasss it,” Crawly murmured in awe. “Thass how it's done.”

He hastily clamped his mouth shut. Right. Not talking. Not a demon. Just a harmless black Squiggle in a tree.

_Blep._

+++

Oh, the Garden was positively enchanting.

Aziraphale had rather come to regard all the creatures in the Garden as his friends. He liked to sit amongst them and marvel at the different sensations of their skins and furs and scales beneath his fingertips. How one animal was so warm to the touch while another was just as cool. How one was hard while another was soft. 

And the sounds they made! Oh, Aziraphale adored closing his eyes and losing himself in that lovely blend of clacking and squawking and roaring and squeaking. It was nothing like the orchestrations of Heaven, so precisely composed to the last detail. The symphony of the Garden was in turns erratic and steady, deafening and hushed, joyful and melancholy. The curious thing inside his own chest beat along with it all sometimes, and he felt less alone. 

One morning, Aziraphale shooed away an increasingly familiar feeling of guilt and slipped down from his post. He longed to pluck one of those delightful green, round bobs ( _fruits,_ he reminded himself cheerfully. _They’re fruits._ ) from its branches and sink his teeth into the sweet flesh. Well, it wasn’t precisely round, was it? Sort of long as well. Long and round. Aziraphale wondered what that shape was called, wondered when someone might name it. 

Aziraphale liked the names of things, which was perplexing, because there really weren’t many of them yet. He liked his own name. He liked the sort of buzzy noise of the “z,” for one thing, a bit like the round, striped fellows he found darting amongst the flowers. He liked the sound of “ra;” it felt more powerful than he deserved. It reminded him of the tawny, shaggy Fur-beasts with their thoughtful yellow eyes. He appreciated the soft landing of “phale,” something like a nice sigh after a delicious handful of those juicy purple orbs he liked so much.

He wished he could say to something, “Hello. My name is Aziraphale” just to hear what it might say back. 

So, one morning, he did.

There was a new creature in the Garden. Aziaphale had seen others like it before, of course: some small and slender and quick, some thick and slow and twisty. These ones all possessed the most peculiar eyes of all the beasts Aziraphale had yet seen. Lovely, though. Peculiar but lovely.

Aziraphale felt something like reverence as he approached this sleeping animal. There was only one Almighty to all things, great and small, but, among its own kind, Aziraphale wondered if this beast was their king. Even in repose, Aziraphale detected strength and speed in its brilliant crimson and ebony coils. Aziraphale slipped to the ground as he got closer, having discovered it was often best to meet a new creature on its own level. 

Aziraphale didn’t want to wake it, but he felt compelled to touch, as he did with all beautiful things. He reached out with gentle fingertips and softly settled them on the newcomer’s scales. He nearly yanked his hand away in surprise. All the Slithery ones he’d met so far had felt so cool. This creature was warm, almost hot. 

“Are you quite all right, my dear?” Aziraphale wondered aloud before he remembered it was fast asleep.

“Goodness, my apologies,” he followed up, immediately. Manners, after all.

The great black and red Slither-beast kept right on sleeping, its huge head tucked under its coils. Curious, Aziraphale reached out again to rest his hand against those nearly burning scales. He tentatively spread his fingers a bit wider and raked them softly along the impressive length of the creature. 

“Hello,” he said after a moment, unable to contain himself any longer. “My name is Aziraphale.”

Shining coils slowly shifted under his touch, but Aziraphale was not afraid. He feared no animal, whatever their size or composition or number of teeth. 

“Good morning, dear one,” Aziraphale smiled.

Huge amber eyes stared at him, unblinking. Aziraphale liked that about the Slithery ones. They didn’t miss a thing. 

The Slither-beast lifted its head and twisted to look at Aziraphale’s hand. It turned back to him and Aziraphale thought he read confusion in its eyes.

 _“What are you doing?”_ Aziraphale imagined it asking him. He wondered what the beast’s voice might sound like. 

“With your permission, of course,” Aziraphale nodded toward his own hand. 

Those magnificent eyes did another quick take from Aziraphale’s face to his hand before the creature slowly nodded. Aziraphale marveled at the incredible slide of its body as it unwound enough to settle its head just below his knee. 

Aziraphale scratched softly against the Slither-beast’s head and he heard it let out a low hiss which he certainly hoped was a pleased one. 

“What a gorgeous creature you are, my dear,” Aziraphale told it, speaking only the truth. It responded by nuzzling more firmly against his leg. 

They sat like that on the ground for a while, angel and beast. It may have fallen back asleep, it was hard to tell with the eyes. After a while, the color of the sky shifted enough to warn Aziraphale his time away from his post was coming to an end.

He withdrew his hand from the Slither-beast’s scales. It didn’t respond. Aziraphale smiled. Definitely still asleep, then.

Aziraphale took another long look at the beast curled up beside him. It was so very different. No legs or wings, for a start, but then, Aziraphale didn’t have great powerful muscles to propel him across the forest floor or up into trees. The animal was dark and shining where Aziraphale was so light and really considered himself more, well, glowy. Something softer. 

Aziraphale let out a contented sigh. It was always nice to have made a friend. Not wishing to disturb the creature, but intent on making sure it knew what a lovely afternoon he’d had, Aziraphale leaned forward and placed a soft kiss on its scaly head.

“Thank you, my dear,” he murmured before returning to his feet and, eventually, returning to the Wall. 

After what he judged to be an appropriate time back at his post, Aziraphale wandered down into the Garden again, keen to discover whoever else he might meet. Surely this was part of his purpose. It hadn’t been explicitly said, true, but Aziraphale felt in his heart he was supposed to be fraternising with all of Her creations. How else was he to serve them?

Aziraphale smiled as he heard the unmistakable snorting and stomping of one of those elegant hooved creatures. Perhaps there was another ride in his future. 

He was only half a footstep into the clearing when he saw them. 

Aziraphale clapped a hand over his mouth to keep from crying out in surprise. There was…well, there was _someone in the Garden._ Not an animal, not one of the other angels…

Aziraphale’s eyes grew wide as he considered a horrible possibility.

A demon.

Oh, yes, oh, no, oh, _dear,_ they must be a demon. Tall and thin, with long fiery curls draped over their black-clad shoulders. They were obviously closer to the hooved animal than she liked. She reared back angrily, but the demon stood their ground, arm outstretched, a bit of fruit in their hand. 

“Just take the stupid bloody thing,” hissed the demon, stamping their foot in what might have been a comical imitation of the hooved beast’s own stomping.

She reared again, furious and frightened. Aziraphale thought he understood. The demon was terrible; that’s just how they were. He’d heard all about demons in Heaven. They were meant to corrupt, to infect, to ruin. Of course everything in the Garden ought to be terrified of them. 

“I’m trying to be…” the demon looked then from side to side, as though wary of being spotted. Aziraphale shrank further back into the bushes, determined to gather more information before confronting his hereditary enemy. He’d never actually fought anything or anyone before. He would succeed at it, of course he would, but, well, tactical advantages and all that.

Aziraphale also wanted to hear what the demon had to say. 

“Trying to be nice,” the demon finally spat. 

The hooved lady snorted as though she too were amused by the grand irony of a demon attempting to be nice. Still, she calmed a bit and stepped forward, nudging at the offered fruit with her snout, deciding whether the promise of a treat might be worth more than the threat of danger. Aziraphale quite understood.

Aziraphale watched the demon’s golden eyes grow wide in…no, it couldn’t be wonder, could it? What did demons care about the cautious affection of splendid, beautiful animals?

“That’sss it,” the demon murmured.

What happened next happened rather quickly. The demon reached out to touch the creature’s lovely neck and -- oh, she did not care for that one single bit. There was an angry noise like a trumpet, a flash of hooves, a piece of fruit tragically sent flying, and then Aziraphale lunged forward to get between the animal and the demon, hands outstretched to protect… 

Well, to protect…

Aziraphale’s brow furrowed. Who was he protecting? What was he doing?

“Whoa,” he heard himself saying to the animal. She was back on all fours, trotting a little in place with nervous energy. “You’re safe now, darling.”

She sniffed reproachfully, pushing her snout against his extended hand.

“Well done, my dear,” he whispered to her as he stroked her soft nose. “You were very daring.”

With a glorious toss of her head, she turned and clopped away. Aziraphale snuck in a tiny breath he hoped the demon wouldn’t hear in order to steady himself, to ready himself for his first encounter with an actual demon. Sharp, venomous words were ready on his tongue as he turned around, but...

Well, the demon didn’t look quite so terrible up close. No, their chest was heaving as though they were out of breath after the encounter. There was color in their thin cheeks. They looked from Aziraphale’s clenched hand to his face, shoulders hunched up defensively. Whether they intended to fight or flee, Aziraphale didn’t know. 

“Hello,” Aziraphale heard himself saying, almost offering a hand to the demon before remembering himself and drawing back. Manners did not extend to denizens of Hell, after all. “My name is Aziraphale.”

The demon blinked back at him, golden eyes peculiar but lovely.

And a tad familiar.

“Pardon me,” Aziraphale frowned. “But have we met somewhere before?”

“Ngk,” managed the demon before scurrying away, nearly tripping over their own feet in their haste.

Aziraphale returned to his station on the Wall, feeling many new things. He shouldn’t have let that awful creature get away. That was certainly against the rules. He hadn’t even brandished his flaming sword! (He had one, you know.)

But hadn’t Aziraphale saved the poor animal? Surely the demon had been plotting something nefarious. What else could they be doing in the Garden? 

As he waded deep through worry, Aziraphale’s foot bumped softly against something lying on the Wall. He looked down to find a fruit. Green and round.

Well, not precisely round. 

Sort of long-round, you know? 

Aziaphale looked from side to side. There was no chance a tree could have dropped a bit of fruit on this spot, not so high up. It seemed equally unlikely that something feathered had brought it to him as a gift of some sort. 

Aziraphale regarded the fruit for a long and curious moment. 

He knew he shouldn’t. 

Aziraphale picked up the piece of bruised fruit and rubbed it gently against his robes. He looked longingly at the exquisite green-ish sheen of it. 

He closed his eyes and bit into it, relishing the marvelous explosion of juice against his tongue. 

The days were early yet. He’d get it right tomorrow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Coming up in about a week on "Horses + Crowley Go Ngk": WESSEX (A Bit of a Joust).
> 
> Crawly is the cutest disaster and I would die for him. - Waywarder
> 
> I feel in my bones how badly Aziraphale needs somebody to talk to. Just wait'll you and that cute demon invent witty banter, angel, you're gonna love it. - Char


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Aziraphale wandered happily through the bustling crowd at the festival, doing his level and angelic best to ignore some of the more unsavory scents in the air. Tiptoeing cautiously to avoid puddles and twisting carefullyso as not to collide with the shoulders of passers-by, Aziraphale withdrew a lavender-anointed handkerchief from his sleeve and inhaled deeply, determined not to let anything spoil his delightful day._
> 
> _It was a tournament day, after all! Today, romance and chivalry reigned. Aziraphale had no damp heavenly errands to run and he was thoroughly prepared to relax and enjoy himself. As he strolled past stall after stall of food and wares, he kept a detailed mental list of all the things he would return to eat and acquire later. He did like to see absolutely everything laid out before him prior to making his purchasing decisions._
> 
> _“Didja hear about this fearsome Black Knight?” Aziraphale heard a merchant mutter to the fellow at the neighboring stall with a trace of a shudder in his voice._

Aziraphale wandered happily through the bustling crowd at the festival, doing his level and angelic best to ignore some of the more unsavory scents in the air. Tiptoeing cautiously to avoid puddles and twisting carefully so as not to collide with the shoulders of passers-by, Aziraphale withdrew a lavender-anointed handkerchief from his sleeve and inhaled deeply, determined not to let anything spoil his delightful day. 

It was a tournament day, after all! Today, romance and chivalry reigned. Aziraphale had no damp heavenly errands to run and he was thoroughly prepared to relax and enjoy himself. As he strolled past stall after stall of food and wares, he kept a detailed mental list of all the things he would return to eat and acquire later. He did like to see absolutely everything laid out before him prior to making his purchasing decisions. 

“Didja hear about this fearsome Black Knight?” Aziraphale heard a merchant mutter to the fellow at the neighboring stall with a trace of a shudder in his voice. 

“Is he jousting today?!” The second merchant sputtered at the frightful suggestion.

Aziraphale fought the urge to roll his eyes, not that anyone in the vast crowd would have noticed him. He had, of course, heard of the “Black Knight,” and there was very little fearsome about him at the end of the day. 

Aziraphale didn’t much care for the violence of jousting, but he couldn’t deny a certain fondness for the rather storybook-like resolution to such displays. A daring, handsome knight with a fair maiden's token on his lance riding up to her after his moment of triumph? Humans could be so inventive and thoughtful about means of courtship. 

_But how do the pretty stories end, I wonder?_ A curious drawl slipped into his mind. _Avoid getting knocked off a horse for a scrap of fabric and that’s true love, is it?_

Aziraphale frowned. Well, that wasn’t the point. The stories ended “happily ever after,” and _that_ was the point. Yes. 

Not for the first time that age of chivalry, Aziraphale let his eyes flutter shut and -- awful surrounding smells be damned -- allowed himself the daydream of someone brave and dashing riding up to him. Perhaps Aziraphale would be dressed as the maiden fair, perhaps he’d just be dressed as himself, perhaps it wouldn’t matter at all, only that the knight had _chosen him to be his champion,_ and oh, Aziraphale would reward them with his favor and -- 

A prodigious whinny interrupted Aziraphale’s reverie. It was followed nearly immediately by a:

“All right, well, fuck you, too, horse!”

Oh, dear.

With his expectations of a simple, pleasant day rapidly disappearing, Aziraphale hurried off the festival’s path and into the surrounding woods in the direction of a familiar, irritated hissing noise. He brushed carefully past the low, overhanging branches until he stood in a small clearing, and was met with what was (again) a terribly familiar and frustrated sight at this point:

First, there was a horse -- a charger, really. Oh, she was lovely. Enormous and powerful-looking, stamping her hooves indignantly. Her coat and mane were both the shiniest black Aziraphale had ever seen outside of the night sky. She really was beautiful. Beautiful, but agitated, shuffling anxiously back and forth across the forest floor. 

Second, there was a knight. Well, to be more precise, a demon masquerading as a knight. Crowley was on the ground, clad in just his padded shirt and breeches (all black, of course), propped up on his elbows, glaring daggers at the horse before him.

“Yeah, well, I don’t like you either,” Crowley was growling at the magnificent creature as Aziraphale cleared his throat.

Crowley’s eyes snapped over to Aziraphale and the demon groaned. It wasn’t the first time Aziraphale had found him in a sprawl of tangled limbs on the ground after having been thoroughly thrown by a noble steed. 

Aziraphale stepped deeper into the clearing and placed a gentle hand on the horse’s side to soothe her. She quieted immediately, turning to bump her nose softly against Aziraphale’s shoulder.

“It’s alright, my dear,” Aziraphale murmured to her. “He’s not so frightening, really.” He turned his gaze to the pile of demon at his feet. “What are you doing here, Crowley?”

“Oh, haven’t you heard? I’m the King now. There was a lovely coronation and everything. Pity you missed it. What does it bloody look like I’m doing?”

“You’re going to get yourself discorporated like this,” Aziraphale retorted, eyes darting with some concern over to the shining, black armor propped against a tree. 

“Wouldn’t be the first time,” Crowley grimaced. Aziraphale nodded in sympathy.

Crowley, it might be said plainly…did not have great luck around horses. For example, there was the incident in Russia (which Aziraphale knew Crowley thought he’d forgotten), and oh, there was also the rather unfortunate situation in Hungary, and, sadder still, there had been Crowley’s great excitement at first encountering a zebra: “Well, they don’t really count, do they, angel?” But he’d been sent flying across the savanna all the same. 

If Aziraphale had a penny for every time the demon had sauntered up to him bruised and bloodied to a pulp after an encounter with a horse, he’d have… Well, the mathematics wasn’t important. 

Aziraphale extended a hand to a disgruntled Crowley. Crowley grabbed Aziraphale by the forearm to pull himself to his feet. Aziraphale’s fingers twitched with the impulse to brush a stray twig out of Crowley’s hair; to get out his lovely handkerchief and wipe away the sweat and grime from Crowley’s face. But the angel ignored it. It wouldn’t do to comfort the enemy anymore than he already had over the years.

Crowley the demon. His hereditary enemy. The Serpent of Eden. The Black Knight… Aziraphale watched his tall, red-headed counterpart shake himself free of dirt and whatever else was on the ground, and he bid his heart stay itself. True, he was cordial to Crowley because manners were what separated the angels from the demons. It was nothing deeper.

“Come here to gloat?” Crowley drawled.

“Hardly,” Aziraphale sniffed. “But my dear boy, whatever are you doing here? You don’t mean to tell me you’re participating in the joust, do you?”

“Sure!” Crowley cracked his knuckles, his tone the very essence of levity. “Sounds fun. Nothing else to do around here, is there?”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said, more gently than he’d intended.

“Fine,” Crowley sighed. “I’ve got an image to maintain and downstairs figured me winning a tournament might go a long way towards achieving that. Spooky Black Knight stuff and all.”

“Why in Heaven’s name do they think you’re any good with horses, Crowley?” 

“Eh…” Crowley trailed off, running a finger through those impossibly crimson locks.

“Crowley!” Aziraphale fought to keep his voice down. “Have you been sending reports back indicating that you’re an expert on horseback?”

“It’s nothing I can’t handle, _angel,_ ” Crowley hissed.

“Nothing _I_ can’t handle, I think you mean,” Aziraphale countered.

“Exactly!” Crowley brightened. “You’re here now and you can help me.”

“Absolutely not!”

“Well, why not?”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale huffed out the name, sounding a little horse-like himself now. “You can hardly expect me to lend a helping hand to you. We’re on opposite sides! I cannot believe we are having this conversation again!”

“Can I help that it’s an important conversation?” Crowley snapped back. 

“It’s a horrid conversation and I shan’t hear another word of it!”

“Think of how much time we could save, Aziraphale! How many more manuscripts you could read, how many more mince pies you could enjoy!”

Aziraphale turned away from Crowley to stroke the horse’s mane. Aziraphale hated that his cheeks were flushed. He hated how much he rather liked, however begrudgingly, Crowley’s argument, despite his protestations to the contrary. He hated that the demon knew him as well as he did.

 _Do you?_ There was that familiar drawl in his head again; its origin easier to pinpoint now. 

When Aziraphale dared to look at him again, Crowley smirked a smirk that Aziraphale quite wanted to smack off his handsome face. 

“No! I mean it this time, Crowley!”

“Of course you do, angel,” Crowley frowned at him, a piteous expression on his face now. 

Aziraphale felt his cheeks burn in anger. He _did_ mean it this time. Yes, of course, he’d assisted Crowley with his equine woes from time to time in the past, but what the demon was suggesting…well, what he was _implying,_ really… 

“I’m returning to the fair, Crowley. There is absolutely nothing you could say to convince me to help you this time. You are on your own.”

And so, with a final friendly pat to the charger, Aziraphale turned on his heel as resolutely as he could manage before Crowley could open his fiendish mouth again, and walked away, determined not to look back. No, not for anything. 

+++

The Black Knight was a fearsome sight that afternoon indeed, ebony armor and night-black horse glinting fiercely in the sunlight. Moving as one, horse and rider approached the lists. A hush fell over the noisy crowd at the impressive sight. Their reputation was well known by this point. Some swore they’d heard tales of the Black Knight’s prowess just the night before at the local tavern, some insisted their mothers had warned them of the Black Knight in their cribs; some couldn’t place where they’d first heard of the terrifying creature, they knew only that he haunted their nightmares. It was almost as though some sort of magic had fixed the notion in their heads.

(It would later be considered a credit to his opponent that he did not yield immediately.)

Aziraphale imagined how the bards might recount the affair later. How the tavern-goers would nearly slip off of their stools in anticipation of the next word of the story, the inn so packed with listeners that they were knocking into each other and spilling their ale: 

_And lo! The Black Knight -- blacker in guise and in heart than the finest ink spilled across pure white snow -- upon his Hell-steed rode across the field that day, striking fear into the hearts of every noble in the stands. Ladies clutched at their fans. Birds ceased their singing._

_After what seemed like an age, the Black Knight lifted his lance and oh, how he charged! He was a veritable storm on horseback, leaving thunder and lightning in his wake, and --_

_“Thunder and lightning in his wake,”_ Aziraphale daydreamed again, liking the feel of the words in his mind, just as his lance collided with a shield and knocked the other knight off his mount. 

As he wheeled the magnificent black charger around, he caught a glimpse of Crowley in the stands. Sunlight caught on the demon’s radiant hair. His wiry arms were folded across his black-clad chest as though he was quite deeply satisfied with himself. And as if he could somehow meet Aziraphale’s eyes from across that distance, he raised his drink and tipped his head. 

It was completely infuriating. 

Yes. Another victory for the Black Knight indeed. 

Aziraphale sucked in a breath as he was presented as the victor of the tournament to the reigning lord. He missed most of the important proclamations; he was too busy thinking again of favors. Despite his triumph, he frowned beneath his visor when he noticed none of the ladies in the crowd were jostling in an attempt to tie their favor to the lance of the Black Knight. That wasn’t how the story was supposed to go, was it? 

He chanced another glance at Crowley and wished he could fix his own handkerchief to the lance. Just to be polite. Just so the story made sense, really.

From his spot in the stands, Crowley grinned even more widely and Aziraphale quietly fumed.

As they finally turned away, Aziraphale patted the horse beneath him and leaned forward to whisper into her ear through his helmet:

“The next time you toss him, my dear, really go the distance, won’t you?”

+++

After the end of the tournament, Aziraphale and Crowley ended up back in the clearing, sitting around a small fire and toasting the victory of the fearsome Black Knight. It wasn’t exactly how Aziraphale had expected to end his tournament day, in the woods, in the company of the demon, with sweat and dirt sticking his hair to his forehead, but he couldn’t deny he was having an enjoyable time all the same.

Well, he _would_ deny it. He had to. 

“So, what did I say?” Crowley finally wanted to know, a smile on his face. Aziraphale smiled himself at the sight of it. 

“What’s that, Crowley?”

“What did I say?” Crowley asked again, pausing briefly to throw back the rest of his ale. “That convinced you to help me again.”

Aziraphale pursed his lips before answering. He couldn’t just say _You convinced me to help you the first time I heard the word “angel” on your tongue. I’m worried that perhaps I’ll always help you, you great idiot._

No, he certainly couldn’t say that. 

“If you must know,” Aziraphale lied, eyes darting down to his own ale. “It was just the pitiful look on your face. You’re no great wordsmith, Crowley.”

“You know, angel,” Crowley smirked, the firelight illuminating his sharp features in a way that made Aziraphale’s breath catch. “I think this might be the beginning of a glorious Arrangement, don’t you?”

Aziraphale’s fingers tightened around his tankard as the words landed.

Oh.

_Well, I’ll be damned._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so very much for reading, dear friends!
> 
> UP NEXT: Are you ready for some Edwardian sidesaddle shenanigans? Yeah, you are.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which an angel rides sidesaddle, and a demon attempts to.

Carriages were all right. Mostly.

The snow and rain weren't a going concern, someone else did the steering, and the horses had blinders on. As long as Crowley was careful to approach the vehicle from the rear, ideally downwind, the horses wouldn't bolt. 

If she was lucky.

It was changing from the carriage to the hunting horses that was giving Crowley trouble today; the moment the horses scented her, they grew restless. 

She joined the party of ladies and gentlemen that was collecting in the courtyard of the great country manor, where they faced down rows of sleek steeds whose plaited tails, scalloped manes, and shining coats marked them as the pets of the aristocracy. They looked glorious and strong in the morning light, but all their strength was carefully restrained -- by strict discipline, by short leads, and by the double bridles and martingales they wore. It was so dreadfully English.

Despite the longstanding animosity Crowley felt toward the creatures, she hated to see them so bound and gagged for the sake of appearances. Broken, they called it these days, they  _ broke _ the horses, to ensure their raw power was never unleashed. People were treated very much the same. She looked around at her fellow foxhunters, dressed in rigid, buttoned-down Regency layers, swaddled to keep the March mist locked out and any untoward animal passions locked in. No amount of fabric could truly suppress human nature -- but by Jove, they were certainly trying. Crowley could practically smell the simmering, unserviced sexuality of the crowd, the reckless energy that could topple great houses and cause all manner of mischief. High starched collars were no match for  _ that. _

“Miss Crowley! So good of you to join us!”

Crowley dipped her knees, letting the train of her black riding habit brush the ground. “Miss Ellerby, Miss Foster, and I must presume, Mrs. Dalrymple?” she said politely to the gaggle of gossips. “Delighted to make your acquaintance. And how did you find your journey here?” 

Introductions, cheek kisses, insincere inquiries, and false promises of future invitations were exchanged at length among the ladies. A smile played at Crowley's lips. She hardly had to do anything here. These wealthy women were virtuosos of polite viciousness.

So the social sniping in the courtyard continued, while one by one these gentlefolk with the finest of manners paired off with the best-behaved of mounts.

Except, of course, for Crowley’s.

The spirited roan filly she was first offered shied away from Crowley, baring her teeth, yanking her head free from the groom's grasp. The horse sidestepped clumsily as the groom chased the reins, and when he caught her, she started to rear up dangerously. Crowley had to intervene with a minor miracle to protect the boy from a head injury or worse.

The ladies gasped and tutted. The gentlemen gathered round, concerned for lovely Miss Crowley, all declaring that  _ they _ wouldn't have such a poorly-behaved horse in their stables. They out-shouted one another with opinions and expertise -- though none of them actually helped the lad trying to calm the horse. 

Crowley took it as an opportunity to flatter them all and pit them against one another. Rich men. So gullible.

Another stableboy brought Crowley a mild-mannered little mare, a seasoned bay with a blaze. She wasn't much happier than the roan, but age tempered her response; she pawed at the ground restlessly and rolled her eyes, pulling against her handler to back away. The overzealous gentlemen offered contradictory advice, loudly, which didn’t help the poor thing. 

Crowley rolled her eyes behind her dark glasses and wished Hell would read her reports once in a while. Especially the bits about the inefficiency of following a single sinner around, shadowing everything they did for weeks. The woman in question was certainly hellfire bound long ago, and Crowley was bored beyond belief by what the upper class considered entertainment these days. And so blessed much of it was equestrian in nature.

A proud, overdressed, and somewhat bucktoothed young blade sidled up to her, probably thinking himself very suave. “Shall we bring out a stud next? Since Miss Crowley inspires such spirit?”

“Perhaps she'd behave if you gave her blinders, like me, Mr. Fitzrowling,” Crowley said drily, gesturing to her glasses. “The two of us, we’re quite a lot to handle.”

He gave her a nausea-inducing smile that stretched all the way to his frizzy sideburns. “Give me a chance to settle her. I’m quite adept at handling wild creatures.”

As it turned out, Mr. Fitzrowling was not. He limped in a small circle to walk off a cowkick to the shin, biting back curses in front of the ladies.

But then a stranger approached, a plump and rosy-cheeked lady in an ivory redingote and high hat, extending a gloved hand toward the mare. “Oh, aren't you a beauty? Yes, you are. Come now, my dear, you're quite safe. Do let's be friends. Isn't that right? Thaaaat's right...” she said in a soft, breathy tone.

The assembled gentry watched in awe as she soothed the bay with her voice, and then her hands. The horse was soon nuzzling her chin and ducking its head affectionately. She whispered in its ear with a smile, and the women, at a distance, whispered about  _ her. _

She took the lead from the groom and brought the docile mount directly to Crowley. They beheld one another seriously for a suspended moment.

“Thank you, Miss Fell,” Crowley said at last with a deep curtsey.

“What a surprise to see you again, Miss Crowley.”

“Indeed it is.”

“Shall we mount up? I hope we may find one another on the field.” Aziraphale directed her glowing, sincere smile right at Crowley -- the very  _ nerve  _ \-- and Crowley looked away to save everyone the drama of a helpless feminine swoon right before the hunt. Aziraphale laughed fondly, a sound like pealing bells, and then offered up the reins of a reasonably compliant horse, which promptly blew fragments of oats into Crowley's hair.

She hadn’t noticed Aziraphale in the crowd -- probably because, having assumed the angel was in London, she hadn’t been looking. They'd corresponded regularly since Paris, so it was unusual for them to be thrown together unawares.

Not that the angel was an unwelcome sight. It had been centuries since Crowley had seen Aziraphale in skirts, and she wore them well. Was it on Heaven's orders? Or a strategy of her own to fulfill Heaven's orders? Or something else? Perhaps it was the clothing; the lacy layered fashion of the day felt a mite stifling to Crowley, but it was probably just the angel's cup of tea.

Crowley took hold of her horse and watched the angel praising a lovely dapple grey with an arched neck and fine legs, its mane plaited to the right and tied in little blue ribbons. Aziraphale was radiant with the signature angelic calm she seemed to impart to all living beings.

Well, all except Crowley, who felt irritated and agitated and overfull and hungry all at once -- the net result of which was a desperate desire for a bottle of wine and some privacy. The  _ Alone _ kind of privacy or the  _ Aziraphale Only _ kind of privacy, either would do. 

She had no such happy option at the moment, in this obnoxious company of upper-crust nincompoops. But it hardly mattered. The angel and the demon had grown accustomed to speaking in code long ago. Crowley led her horse over to the angel, and much to her relief, the mare followed her peaceably.

“I thank you for your assistance, Miss Fell,” said Crowley. “You always do lend a hand when needed.”

Aziraphale laughed again, petting the velvety nose of her filly, who did not snort oats in the least. “I never thought I'd see you on a fox hunt, Miss Crowley. Are you here to scare the horses?”

“The horses are here to scare  _ me.” _

“Quite so.”

“They scare me, I scare the dogs.”

“There’s a logic to that, I suppose; you’re smaller than the mounts, bigger than the hounds.” 

“And a snake.”

“And a snake, yes. Although I thought that was  _ why _ you scare the horses?”

“Precisely, Miss Fell, and scared horses scare me. So, your side approves of foxhunting, angel? I'm astonished.”

That prompted a thoughtful frown. “Oh, it’s not that I condone it, but -- well, it does keep the fox population in check...”

“Ennngh, I’m with the foxes on this one,” said Crowley. “It’s not their fault they’re thriving. If the landowners hadn’t offed all the wolves, the fox population would  _ be _ in check.”

One of the huntsmen passed very close to them and they broke into peals of giggles for a moment. It wouldn’t do to be overheard saying anything of substance.

“Yet despite your sympathies, you're here for the hunt as well, are you not, Miss Crowley?” Aziraphale observed.

“Oh, I love a bit of fresh air on a rainy March day, me.” Crowley checked to be sure the gentleman had passed out of hearing. “Not to mention the smell of fresh dog shit and horse piss. And I simply  _ adore _ all the baying and horn blowing, don’t you?”

“It -- ah -- it has its points, I suppose --”

“Most diverting, to my mind. And the men! A treat to spend time with men on the hunt. So opinionated. And shooty. And oily.”

Aziraphale sucked air in through her teeth. “They are a bit oily, aren't they?”

“Yes, but they're wealthy, so nobody tells  _ them _ that,” Crowley shrugged.

At that moment the men in question descended on them with overwrought compliments and offers of assistance in mounting up. They seemed to think it was a truth universally acknowledged that because they were in possession of good fortunes and in want of wives, any single woman would faint over a scrap of their attention.

The angel and the demon tittered and tossed their heads and placated the gentlemen with compliments, which was frankly the simplest way to manage them. Crowley found rich men to be universally dull, and she could never bother tracking the inane conversations they saw fit to have with women. Especially not while Aziraphale was  _ right there _ to talk to. The angel was being manhandled by some incompetent lout even though she could mount a horse on her own with the grace of a dancer.

The especially oily bucktoothed man with the leggy thoroughbred -- Mr. Fitzrowling, she recalled eventually -- insisted on helping Crowley up, and he laid a hand squarely on her arse in the process. Fitzrowling protested that it was an accident, in a tone that indicated it was absolutely no such thing. Crowley smiled and thanked him for his trouble and gave him a permanent phantom pebble in his boot.

All around them, the Hunt readied their whips and adjusted their seats, making final preparations to sally forth. The Huntsman sounded the horn and started through the gates at a walk, along with the dogs and the Master of Hounds. The hunters followed, all snuff and arrogance, with the whippers-in and grooms and staff. Finally, the members of the mounted field rode out to spend a  _ whole day _ in the cold wet woods, chasing dozens of dogs that were bred specifically to be loud. Oh, rapture. When the whole party had passed through the gates into the open countryside, the horses broke into a trot or a canter, following the hounds and the horn.

Crowley shifted uncomfortably; her twisted layers of skirts were pulling the wrong way against her riding habit, and there was no hope of adjusting them. She was always clumsy and off-balance riding sidesaddle. The other women seemed to manage it just fine, though Crowley couldn’t fathom how. Here she was, a literal demon with the snakiest of hips, yet she jerked and jolted all over the place, weaving like a drunkard on her mount. 

Watching Aziraphale ride was a thing of beauty and a joy forever. Her spine was straight yet relaxed, her hips, for once, fluid, her skirts draped elegantly and fluttering in the breeze. She allowed the animal beneath her to bounce over the terrain while appearing to float atop it. Crowley gritted her teeth and tried not to look too ridiculous -- or slide off completely -- as she gripped the pommel harder between her thighs.

They proceeded across the damp fields toward the forest. The day was grey. It had seemed gloomy and dull before, but now that the angel was here, the mist seemed beautiful, melancholy and mysterious. Or some such poetic rot. 

It was less awful anyhow.

Once they reached the woods, they slowed to a walk. The riders formed little knots and clusters, and Crowley and Azirapale quickly fell to the rear. Their horses followed the party peaceably, and the baying hounds ran further and further ahead, thank Satan.

“How are you getting on?” asked Aziraphale, assessing Crowley's seat with some amusement.

“I can’t think for the life of me why the men ride astride instead of the women,” Crowley grumbled. “It'd save me leagues of bruised bollocks if I could ride  _ this _ way across country in breeches. And I could stay on the horse in all these blessed skirts if I could just throw a leg over --  _ nngphhhphh!” _ Crowley stuck her stirruped foot out awkwardly and grabbed at the pommel to keep herself from overbalancing.

“They think riding sidesaddle will preserve the ladies’ all-important virginity, apparently,” Aziraphale sighed. “They keep getting so dreadfully hung up on that notion. However did the idea come about? It's not as if the men bother with it.”

“Women getting the short end of the stick does appear to be a recurring theme.”

“That wouldn’t have anything to do with an apple and a curse, now, would it?”

Crowley glared. “You leave her out of this. Eve was nice.”

“She was, wasn’t she?”

The angel really was distractingly lovely in all those skirts. Crowley cleared her throat and tried to focus on the trail ahead. “So. Ah. What brings you this far from the city, Miss Fell?”

“Keeping you from getting trampled, apparently.”

“Grown bored with your bookshop so soon?”

Aziraphale looked furtively left and right. “I've been in the country pursuing...productive conversations with the landed gentry, in the hope they may make better provision for those on their estates and in town.”

“And to get them back to church, no doubt?” Crowley prodded with a smirk.

The angel blushed. “That was my original directive, yes. On that score, I find that persuading the ladies is the best route to persuading the men. It’s far more effective than  _ being _ one of the men.”

“Smells better too, these days.”

“To be sure. And the country has its charms, of course.”

“Well, I'm sure the widows and orphans of Soho miss you ever so much,” said Crowley, although she regretted it almost immediately when Aziraphale's sunny expression clouded with remorse.

“Unfortunately, Gabriel found my latest efforts in the city to be...an...an uninspiring use of my time,” she explained. “He visited and -- he didn’t -- it's almost as if -- that is, I don't wish to make it seem as though --”

“Out with it, angel.”

“I'm afraid he...didn’t much care for the sight nor the smell of the poor.”

Crowley felt her mare's body tense, shifting its weight, and a too-familiar sound and smell followed. She winced and looked behind her to confirm that her horse was indeed taking a massive dump without stopping. “Well, that’s management for you,” she said wryly. “Can’t bear to get their hands dirty.”

Aziraphale laughed, and Crowley thanked her very first stars that she could make that happen now and again.

“What about you?” asked Aziraphale.

“Just havin’ a go at the upper class. They're so twitchy since that whole affair in France, y’know?” Crowley tried to untwist her petticoats from her habit, but they were pinned down by her legs no matter how she squirmed.

“I remember it well,” Aziraphale said with a smile.

“Easy pickings for temptation up here. The dances and the affairs and the gossip are all good fun, anyway. Have you seen the new necklines out of London this year? I’ve got envy, lust, and avarice in the bag, and I've not even lifted a finger.”

“Oh, so you weren’t sent here on any particular assignment, then?”

They took several steps in silence, save the hushed plodding of hooves. “I...might have been,” said Crowley cautiously. “You?”

“Oh dear. Why are we both here?” Aziraphale wondered aloud. “Isn’t it worrisome they sent us both directly to the same place at the same time?”

_ But if you knew we were coming to the same place, _ thought Crowley,  _ we might have Arrangemented it, and not run into each other at all. _ “Well, it's working out all right so far,” she said.

“Perhaps they suspect something,” Aziraphale remarked quietly. “Since Paris.”

“Hell doesn’t,” Crowley insisted.

“How can you possibly be certain about that, Crowley?”

“Nngh. Just am.” 

Crowley wasn't. It could all very well go pear-shaped, and she knew it.

Suddenly, with a flurry of motion and flashing silver wings, a flock of pigeons burst out of a bush beside them. Crowley’s horse shied away, bucked once, and took its head, darting off through the trees.

Nearly unseated and tipping back dangerously, Crowley grabbed her hat and her hunting whip and then remembered she really ought to grab at the reins. It was a lucky thing she didn't, though, because a moment later she was scraped right out of the saddle by a massive oak branch. She clung to it miserably, legs dangling in the air, looking about as dignified as a soaked cat.

The seven virtues must have been more deeply rooted in angels than in most humans, because the Principality Aziraphale had enough self-control  _ not _ to laugh at her unfortunate adversary. Crowley would have been grateful were she not so annoyed.

“Come now, there's a good girl,” Aziraphale said in a soothing voice as she eased her horse one step at a time directly under Crowley's flailing legs. “I’ve got you; you’re all right.”

“Me or the horse?” grunted Crowley.

“Since you'd be cross with me if I said  _ you, _ I shall let you wonder. Down you come.” Aziraphale swept one arm under Crowley's knees and set the other under her shoulder blades, and just like that Crowley was seated more or less across the angel's lap with her skirts all bunched up around her knees. She was always forgetting how strong angels were. She blinked over her glasses into brilliant blue eyes. 

Aziraphale reached a hand across Crowley's lap to reclaim the reins and tug gently at the bit. “Back, back now...” she commanded. The horse gingerly stepped clear of the oak. Crowley wanted to squirm, either right out of or further into the angel's arms, but their balance was precarious as it was. Curse these ridiculous saddles.

“Are you quite well, Miss Crowley?” asked Aziraphale, finally starting to smile.

The angel was very warm. And she smelled good. And there was certainly a reason Crowley should be getting down now, but she couldn't remember what it was.

“Ngk,” said Crowley.

A crash from the underbrush interrupted the moment. Mr. Fitzrowling and his thoroughbred pranced toward them through the trees. Aziraphale's body drew tense and tight around Crowley.

“Oh, how unfortunate for you!” he said, sounding more triumphant than sympathetic. “You're lucky I circled back to check on the party.”

“Are you faring so poorly in the hunt already, Mr. Fitzrowling?” Crowley enquired sweetly.

“I saw a riderless horse and I thought I knew whose it was. Shall I fetch her for you, Miss Crowley? Perhaps you should ride my Archie and I should take the mare, if she’s so flighty. Although you'd have to sit astride, of course, at the risk of endangering your virtue.” His oily smile hinted that the state of her virtue concerned him in rather a different way than polite society intended it to.

Crowley smiled. “Such a generous offer,” she said, batting her eyelashes. As Fitzrowling came alongside them, she tilted her head at an angle so that the brim of her hat hid her eyes from his -- but not from his Archie. Crowley drew her glasses down her nose, looked into the stallion's eye, and winked.

The thoroughbred was off like a shot through the trees, bouncing his off-balance rider terribly as he approached the speeds for which his Arabian ancestors were renowned. 

Crowley had no use for virtues of any sort, so she laughed hysterically as he vanished into the forest. Aziraphale did not laugh aloud, but Crowley was close enough to feel her torso trembling as she restrained herself. Perhaps it wasn't such a terrible day for a hunt after all.

With a low, melodious whistle, the angel called Crowley’s little mare back to them. She still seemed skittish, but looked rather embarrassed, if anything, as Aziraphale coaxed her closer and scratched behind her ears.

“When will they come up with a better way to get around?” Crowley complained.

“I don’t imagine it will be anytime soon. You're lucky I was in the area,” said Aziraphale, arching an eyebrow.

She expertly lined up their mounts and helped Crowley to find her stirrup under the endless yards of petticoats. Then the angel more or less poured Crowley like a liquid out of her strong arms and back onto the wary little bay. At least now her skirts and her riding habit weren't twisted about.

“Shall we call this a successful rescue?” Aziraphale sang out happily.

Crowley crossed her arms and pouted. “I don’t need rescuing, angel.”

“Except for when you do, foul fiend. Except for when you do.”

Crowley harumphed. “Won’t be the first time I got scraped off a horse, nor the last. Y'know what would be  _ really _ embarrassing? Getting clapped in irons over crêpes.”

“But you must admit they were delectable, my dear.”

_ You're delectable, _ Crowley thought before she could stop herself.

“Leaving you in jail next time, angel,” she said instead.

“Walk on, love. Walk on,” said Aziraphale to her dapple grey. And they did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope the fox got away.
> 
> Huge thanks to @willowherb for editing. It was reinforced while writing this chapter (more than ever before) that I have no idea how to England; it's a good thing she does.
> 
> Thank you so much for reading and commenting! I can never get enough of Regency wives.
> 
> Coming next, whenever it pleases us: cowboy husbands. Stay tuned and send a friend to read it!

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for spending a little time with us here! Subscribe and send a friend this way if you enjoyed it!
> 
> Waywarder is https://waywarder.tumblr.com/  
> CharlotteMadison is https://charlottemadison42.tumblr.com/  
> Thanks to the most fabulous beta, @willowherb, who is at https://willowherbgardens.tumblr.com/


End file.
